


One-Night Stand

by delia-pavorum (literaryminded)



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dive Bar Meet Cute, Drunk Rey Likes Shy Ben, F/M, Inspired by prompts, One Night Stands, Oral Sex, Regular (But Phenomenal) Sex, Shower Sex, Shy Ben Not So Shy in the Bedroom, alternating povs, undeniable attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 05:53:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14909606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum
Summary: “You were passed out, so I let you sleep and thought I’d make us some breakfast. Are pancakes okay? You didn’t have eggs, but I figured it out.”Are pancakes okay? Are pancakesokay?I just had an existential crisis fifteen years in the making, condensed into the span of time it took me to pee, all because I thought you had snuck off on me in the middle of night after saying that you would stay, and it made me question everything I know about my state of mind, the trajectory of my life, and my feelings for you, a virtual stranger, who I’ve known for less than half a day, but have somehow convinced myself I can’t possibly live without, and not just because you gave me the best head of my life—“Pancakes are great!” she responds, her voice cracking only slightly.What happens when two people are on the same page and they don't know it? A one-shot in two parts.





	1. the night of

**Author's Note:**

> This started off as a prompt fill on my tumblr (which you can find [here](https://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com)) and it was followed by another request that I felt paired up really nicely with the first. The two prompts were: _"You, sir, are very attractive"_ and _"You're still here...and making pancakes?"_. The fic itself takes place in two parts: the first, from Ben's POV, is about the night our two lovebirds meet. The second, Rey's POV, is the next morning.
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! (—and, for the record, I _really_ enjoyed writing this one) 
> 
> Gorgeous moodboard by the insanely talented [rileybabe](rileybabe.tumblr.com)
> 
>   
> 

Ben Solo sits at the bar and idly picks at the label of his beer bottle, his second in as many hours.

For possibly the hundredth time, he wonders why he’s still sitting at that bar, nursing a tepid beer, instead of just going home.

It could be because the thought of spending yet another Friday night – alone – in his sterile apartment is borderline unbearable.

It could be because he knows that if he goes home, he’s just going to end up working on his latest case, the one he’s been working on for the last ten days non-stop, the one responsible for the twitch under his left eye that he fears might be permanent, the one that he came to this bar to get the fuck away from.

Or…

Or it could be because of the cute girl at the other end of the bar that keeps giving him looks, getting progressively bolder as time – and the amount of alcohol she consumes – increases.

Ben sneaks another glance at her as he brings the beer to his lips and takes a sip. She’s laughing loudly at something one of her friends has said, head tossed back with unbridled amusement. He feels a pinch in his chest as he takes in her wild and beautiful face, freckled and dimpled, open and lovely.

_Yeah_. Yeah, it’s definitely because of that.

His brows draw together as he looks down at his beer again. He succeeds in taking the label off completely – only a bit of residue left on the bottle, score – and he crumples it in his hand, before sighing heavily.

This is stupid. He’s going home.

At that thought, he motions to grab his coat off the back of his chair. As he stands to put it on, he hears groans and good-natured insults being tossed around from the party to his left that includes Cute Girl. He hazards a glance over and he sees her hugging her petite Asian friend goodbye, before the taller dark-skinned man she was with wraps her up in a warm embrace. He points a friendly finger at her and wags it slightly. She shakes her head and laughs him off, pushing his hand out of her face.

“—five more minutes. I’ll be fine!” she insists, though Ben can’t pick up the first part of her sentence over the din of the crowd. Her male friend simply shakes his head. Then, to Ben’s surprise, he looks up and meets his gaze dead on.

The hair prickles on the back of Ben’s neck as the two men stare at each other. Something is happening, some sort of showdown, although Ben can’t for the life of him figure out what – or why.

The man leaves him with one last hard, lingering glance – the two girls are chatting animatedly and are oblivious to the exchange that Ben slowly comes to recognize as a warning of some sort – before leaning down to say something in the Asian girl’s ear and wrap an arm over her shoulders, giving her a comforting squeeze. She looks up at him and nods, her eyes glowing as they pass over his face. Her hand lowers to her belly and Ben notices for the first time that her loose, silky top is hugging a rounded bump, evident when she turns a certain way.

He looks away from the intimacy of the young couple and concentrates on putting his jacket on. Then, he pulls his wallet out from his back pocket and goes to throw a twenty on the bar, when he hears a crisp, accented voice from behind him.

“You, sir, are _very_ attractive.”

He whirls around and then looks down in surprise.

Standing directly in front of him is his Cute Girl, even cuter up close. More than cute – stunning. Hair up in a messy bun, with wisps coming down to frame her face. Perfect wing-tipped eyes, almost feline in their elegance. A smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Straight teeth, barely contained under full, plush, rosy lips.

He gapes at her for a second while she stares at him expectantly. The tip of her nose is slightly reddened and he can see a haze in her eyes that denotes a certain level of inebriation.

Ever the lothario, he responds with: “ _Me_?”

She giggles slightly as she looks up at him through her lashes. “ _Yes_ , you. My friends had to go home early, but I didn’t feel like leaving just yet. And you’ve been here this whole time without anyone to keep you company. So I thought—” She breaks off, biting her lip and looking away, a flush rising on her cheeks. “I’m being very bold. I’m not usually this bold,” she admits finally, in an undertone.

“No, no, I—” He runs his hand through his hair, scratching the top of his head nervously while he considers his next words. _Don’t fuck this up_. “I am alone. I mean, I was. I mean—I wouldn’t mind some company. If you’re offering.” He sits back down at the bar abruptly and pulls out the chair next to him with his foot. “Let’s keep each other company?” It would have been a much smoother line, had his voice not raised up an octave in uncertainty at the end.

His Cute Girl doesn’t seem to mind, however, as she gives him a blinding grin and plops down in the chair beside him, crossing her ankles primly between his spread legs. Her ballet flats dangle while his feet stay firmly planted on the floor. He stares at her feet for a moment, mesmerized, before looking up and meeting her sparkling eyes. He can see gentle mockery in her gaze as she watches him watching her. He feels the tips of his ears get hot and he clears his throat.

“I’m Ben, by the way,” he says, holding out his hand.

“Rey.” She meets his palm with her own and gives his hand a firm shake.

“Is that short for something?” he wonders, glad that his brain saved him at the last second from his initial reaction, which was to say: _“Like Romano?”_

“It’s spelled R-e-y,” is her non-answer. “It’s nice to meet you, Ben.” She gives him a cheeky, sparkling smile and he feels the hair on his arms stands on end.

“You, too,” he says and he means it, sincerely. Suddenly his night has gone from yet another tedious and lacklustre evening to a night of possibilities. Not just of a sexual nature, though he can’t help but consider it as he takes in her trim figure. Small, pert breasts, barely showing under the neckline of a round necked top, tucked into skinny jeans to accentuate a small waist that flares into generous hips. Those slim ankles encased in dainty shoes. He adjusts his position in his seat as he feels his pants get just a bit tighter at the zipper.

She hasn’t missed his perusal, as she rests her head in her hand, elbow on the bar, and watches him with a knowing grin. He wonders if she took the opportunity to do her own inspection while he was distracted. He tries not to think about what she may have thought. He knows that a stint in the military and a subsequent dedication to the gym – what else is he going to do when he’s not working? – have built up his once-lanky frame into something visibly strong and even muscular. But add that body onto a head that’s a bit too small, ears and nose that are a bit too big, and feet that perpetually turn inwards – well, a leading man he knows he is not.

Still, she’s smiling at him and looking at him with those dreamy, somewhat tipsy eyes, and he remembers her words – “ _very_ attractive” – and it makes him smile in a way where he forgets to hide his slightly crooked teeth.

“So, Ben, what do you do?”

He tells her and, whether it’s the spell she has weaved over him with her tip-tilted eyes and dimpling smile, or the fact that she genuinely seems interested, he divulges quite a bit about what, exactly, he does for work (bitchwork under the guise of lawyering) and how he feels about it (bad).

She listens with rapt attention and when he feels like he’s been talking too much and asks her about what she does, he finds himself breathless in the face of her animation - the passionate way she speaks, the manner in which she moves her hands, or reaches out to brush her fingertips on his hand or on his knee as she makes a particular point. She’s a visceral, physical being, drawing a person in with invisible threads extending from her eyes, her mouth, her fingers, rendering them helpless to resist her allure. He is inextricably drawn to her siren’s song, which essentially amounts to her very existence: she breathes; he is bewitched.

Time passes, he supposes, because eventually it’s last call and the bartender has been pointedly wiping the same spot in front of Rey and Ben for the last twenty minutes, presumably hoping they’d get the hint. Admittedly, they hadn’t been the best customers. They had each ordered one more drink right when they had first sat down together – Ben had paid, Rey had protested – and then proceeded to take up valuable barstool real estate for the next three hours, crunching on ice and helping themselves to complimentary pretzels before those were moved away from them as well.

Ben sighs and looks around as the bar slowly starts to empty, patrons heading home or off on their next adventure.

“I guess that’s our cue,” he says, reluctantly. He looks over at her to see her reaction. She’s worrying her lip as she looks towards the door and then back at him, though she says nothing. “Do you have a ride home? Let me get you an Uber—”

“Come to my place?” she blurts out at the same time. He gapes at her and she blushes. “Just to hang out,” she adds hurriedly. “For a tea. Or coffee. Or something.”

“Yeah!” he responds, a bit too enthusiastically. He tries to tone it down slightly: “I love tea!” (And fails.)

“Yeah.” She’s nodding now. “Yeah. Tea. Okay, let’s go.” She gets up abruptly, grabbing a small purse with a long strap and throwing it on across her chest. She holds out her hand.

He stares at it for a second, before engulfing it in his and standing up. Her palm is warm and a bit rough and their fingers link automatically, as though they’ve done it a hundred times before. Once he’s up, he takes the lead, pulling her out of the bar and onto the street. She’s already tapping away with her thumb on her phone, determining the closest driver to their location, when a cab with the light on almost passes them.

“Hey, hey, hey—!” Ben puts out his hand to hail it, dragging both of them almost to the curb, and the taxi comes to a screeching halt. He looks at Rey. “This okay?”

She shrugs and tucks her phone back into her purse. “Fine by me.”

Ben opens the door for her and she ducks in. He admires the view of her ducking in, before getting in himself.

“Where to?” the cabbie asks.

Rey rattles off her address, which Ben recognizes as being in not the greatest part of town. He’s about to suggest they go to his place instead, when she suddenly launches herself at him, swinging her legs across his lap and bringing her face towards his, before stopping just short of making contact.

He grabs her arms to balance her as his entire body stiffens and he intakes a swift breath. He looks down at her and she looks up at him. Her eyes reflect a bit of bewilderment and embarrassment, as does the high colour of her cheeks. He knows she’s not completely intoxicated, but he can smell the vodka on her breath, enough to assume she’s still a bit tipsy. She has a light floral and powdery scent, maybe a perfume or a soap mixed with a deodorant, and she’s close enough that he can see the smattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. He glances down at her mouth and watches as the tip of a pink tongue darts out to wet her plush bottom lip.

“I—” she starts and it doesn’t matter what she was about to say, because he is magnetically drawn towards her in that moment and he closes the gap between them, his hand wrapping around the back of her head, gently cradling, as his lips touch hers.

The first contact is electric – he feels it in the immediate tightening at the seam of his pants and he knows she feels it, too, in the way she squirms in his lap. She twines her arms around his neck and her hand snakes up in his hair, getting tangled in the clipped locks. She gives them a slight tug as she deepens the kiss, leaning forward so that he leans back until the back of his head is touching the window. He feels her tongue coaxing his mouth open wider and he’s more than happy to oblige, his one hand still holding her head steady, while his other wraps around her back, holding her tightly at the waist as he meets her tongue with his own.

A quiet moan rumbles in the back of her throat – he tastes it more than hears it – and his fingers reflexively tighten, digging into the soft flesh of her side.

“No sex in cab!”

They both jerk apart with a gasp and look up, meeting the gaze of the irate cab driver in the rear-view mirror.

“You start to do sex in my cab, you leave now!” He turns to point an accusatory finger at the two of them. “One warning!”

Rey sheepishly slides out of Ben’s lap, biting her lip to hide her smile. “Sorry,” she mumbles, crossing her hands primly in her lap.

He sighs heavily and cards his hands through his hair while they exchange abashed glances, then tries to discreetly adjust himself when she turns to look out her window.

The rest of the drive passes in awkward silence, the only sound emanating from whatever foreign radio station is playing in the cab and the indecipherable static conversations between the other cab drivers in the area.

After wavering back and forth with himself for too many minutes, Ben finally opens his mouth to say something when the cab comes to an abrupt stop. “We’re here,” the driver announces, evidently mollified now that no sex has occurred in his cab.

Ben pays the fare despite more objections from Rey and they finally step out together in the cool night air. It had been a warm day that got cooler as the evening progressed, typical for the city in spring.

She lets them into her building, past the elevator – _out of service_ , Ben notices, pressing his lips together in a hard line – to the stairwell.

“I’m on the fourth floor,” she reassures him as they begin their ascent.

_Not very well-lit_ , Ben notices, lips tightening further. He places a hand on her back as they make their way up the stairs and he attempts to dampen down the feelings of anxiety and protectiveness that course through him.

_She’s not yours to protect. She’s a grown woman. She knows how to take care of herself_ , says his rational mind.

_Did you see that fucking street? Did you see that creep standing on the corner_ obviously _on drugs? How long has that elevator been out of service? Call the super NOW_ , says his ape mind.

The two sides continue to war with one another as they arrive on the fourth floor and push the heavy door open into a hallway.

_It’s not so bad here_ , Ben is relieved to observe, and even more pleased when she lets them into her apartment, a clean, updated one-bedroom with a small kitchen and living area, and what he assumes is a bathroom tucked away in the corner.

“Well, here we are,” she says, doing a little twirl with her arms up. “My humble flat.”

His mouth reflexively tilts upwards at her British-ism, finding it adorable, finding _her_ adorable.

“I know it’s not much,” she continues, “and the rent is still outrageous. But at least it’s mine.” She sighs happily as she looks around. He wants to ask about the significance of having something to call her own, but before he can, she moves into the kitchen and grabs the kettle off the stove-top. “Tea?”

“Uh, yeah, tea.” He clears his throat, thinking about her lips on his, slender legs draped over his larger ones, and he runs his hand through his hair, scratching at the top. “Please.”

She pours water in the kettle and turns on the stove, settling it over one of the elements. Then, to his surprise, she turns around and scrambles up on the countertop, reminiscent of a little monkey he had seen in a nature video. She opens up one of the top cupboards and pulls out two boxes of tea. He realizes the counter climbing is a result of the fact that she can’t reach the top of the cupboard and his heart clenches. He also makes note of the fact that it didn’t even occur to her to ask him for his help, despite the fact that he’s a full head taller. His curiosity over this and his palpitations over how endearing he finds her counter-clambering allows him to draw one inevitable conclusion: this girl is going to be the death of him. He feels it in his bones.

She’s sitting on the counter and regarding the two boxes she holds in her hands. “I have orange pekoe,” she informs him, “and some green tea that I forgot about and has probably expired. What would you—” She cuts herself off the minute she glances up and sees that he has moved right up to her, so that he’s standing practically between her spread legs.

Ben hadn’t even been aware that he’d moved from his spot until he catches himself standing almost directly in front of her. He takes a small step back – he doesn’t feel right about encroaching on her space, in case it makes her uncomfortable – and tries to focus on the question she had asked. Something about expired tea—?

She puts the boxes down on either side of her and regards him through her lashes. The moment goes from innocuous to loaded as she brings her leg up, ballet flat clattering to the floor, and draws him closer with her ankle and the side of her bare foot pressing into his backside.

Closer, closer still, until he’s standing right between her spread legs, and she’s crossed her ankles behind him, the other shoe joining its partner on the floor. His breathing gets heavier as he places a hand on either side of her head, bracing himself on the cupboard shelves directly behind her. She clenches her fists into his black wool-cashmere sweater – the result of needing to keep up the pretence of business formal in the office, even on warm days, and just thankful he hadn’t been wearing a suit – and draws his upper body towards her excruciatingly slow.

The tea kettle chooses that moment to sing the song of its people, shrieking them out of their reverie.

They break apart and both turn to look at the whistling kettle. Rey lets out a shaky sigh and abruptly shifts it onto a different element. Then she turns back to Ben and clenches her hands into his sweater once more.

“Listen,” she whispers urgently, “fuck tea, right?”

He’s already nodding. “Yes. Yes, fuck it. Hate tea. Hate—”

His tea tirade goes unfinished as Rey crashes her lips to his, wrapping her legs around his waist as she slides her bottom to the edge of the counter, bringing him flush between her legs.

The kiss is explosive, tongues licking and teeth clacking as they explore each other’s mouths, hands coasting over each other.

Rey buries her hands under Ben’s sweater. Then, feeling the cotton of his undershirt, untucks his tee to get her hands on his bare back.

He groans out loud when her palms make contact with his overheated skin and deepens the kiss, cupping her head with one hand while the other splays across her back, as her hands glide towards the front of his pants and untuck his shirt from there as well, before tugging it upwards towards his underarms.

He breaks the kiss only for a moment to pull off his sweater and his white t-shirt in one motion, tossing it on the counter before tugging her face towards his once more.

She halts him with a hand on his chest and untucks her own top, then crosses her arms to grab the hem and lift it up and over her head.

He exhales shakily as he takes in her bare upper body, small breasts encased in a light pink lacy bra, taut stomach trembling slightly. He sees a few freckles dotting her pale skin and his mouth waters at the thought of mapping them with his tongue. Then, all thought ceases entirely as she reaches behind her back and unclasps her bra.

Slowly, she allows it to slide off her shoulders and down her arms. He swallows audibly as she drops it to the floor on top of her discarded shirt. She leans back slightly on her arms, bracing her hands on the countertop. He can see each quivering inhale in her shaking breasts, swears he can even see her heart thundering through her chest. He reaches for her slowly, a question in his eyes, and she puts her hands on his shoulders in reply, drawing him in even closer by tucking her calves into his thighs and bending her knees.

It’s all the permission he needs.

He lifts her bodily into his arms and her hands go from on his shoulders to his back as her arms twine around his neck and her legs around his waist. He adjusts so he’s grabbing her at her upper thighs and bottom, unable to resist giving it a squeeze. The press of bare skin against bare skin is divine and he almost groans out loud once more at just the contact. He can feel her nipples poking into his upper chest and can’t wait to get his hands on them.

“Bedroom?” It’s more of a grunt than a question, but she deciphers it anyway and points him in the right direction.

He carries her the entirety of the short walk, before throwing her onto her unmade bed.

Although her place is clean, it’s clearly lived in. She doesn’t seem overly opposed to clutter, at least not as much as she seems to be opposed to using the hamper, or the dresser, or the closet for that matter. A part of him is almost relieved and it takes him half a second to realize why – messy usually means you aren’t expecting company. Messy meant she probably didn’t come to the bar to pick up; that, instead, she had just wanted to have a couple drinks with friends and fate had intervened.

He doesn’t know why this matters so much.

_It really shouldn’t_ , says rational mind.

_But it does_ , says ape brain.

_Shut up,_ says Ben, as he leans over her to kiss her again. This time, after kissing her lips briefly, he moves along her neck, tasting her pulse points, the tang of light sweat and perfume, and down her chest until finally he’s kissing those glorious breasts, each a perfect handful, and drawing a sweet, pink nipple into his mouth.

She moans loudly and twines her fingers into his hair. He’s too far gone at this point to even acknowledge her enthusiasm, solely intent on devouring her for his own selfish needs. He suckles and laves both rosy nipples in turn, digging his fingers into ribs and waist, hips and thighs.

He kisses down her body, along her flat stomach until he reaches the waistband of her jeans. Undoing the button, he eases them down her legs, kissing the top of her underwear as he works his way down.

He removes her pants completely and tosses them aside when she props up on her elbows and looks down at him chagrined. “Ugh. Sorry about that.”

He looks at her quizzically, his heated brain unable to decipher what, exactly, the problem is.

“I didn’t— I haven’t—” She gestures in the direction of her shins. “I don’t usually—er, that is to say, I wasn’t expecting—” She breaks off awkwardly and just looks at him uncomfortably.

He blinks and then looks down at her legs again. Is it because—?

Yes, they have a fine dusting of body hair covering them. Yes, they are clearly not the level of smoothness depicted in depilatory commercials.

Does she actually think he _cares_?

“Rey,” he murmurs, waiting until she looks at him. “It doesn’t matter one fucking bit. Don’t be crazy.”

It’s the god’s honest truth and to prove his point, he runs both his hands up her shins and gives them an extra rub for good measure, the short, fine hairs prickling his sensitized palms. She rewards him with a giggle and he grins back at her, continuing up her thighs, until he reaches her cotton underwear – also pink, though clearly not part of a matching set with the bra, clean, serviceable, boy cut. Perfect.

He pulls it down and off and then she’s bare underneath him and he thanks God and the stars and whatever fates aligned that brought him to this moment, with this girl, after the shittiest week of his life, in the stupidest bar in town, drinking a lukewarm beer and thinking about Hux and his empty apartment, otherwise known as the two most depressing thoughts in the world.

He sits up and unbuttons his own pants, pulling them down and off his legs, discarding shoes and socks as he goes, and then he crawls halfway up her body, stopping just between her legs.  

“I want to—” He looks down at the apex of her thighs meaningfully. “Is that okay?”

“Oh,” she breathes. “Oh! I mean, yes. Yes, it’s okay. I showered,” she adds, hurriedly. “This morning, though. Is _that_ okay?” She looks at him nervously, her breath coming rapidly in what he hopes is more arousal than nervousness.

He can’t help but chuckle at her response. _I will literally take you any way I can._ “Yes. It’s fine. Rey.” He kisses her hip bone. “Everything has been perfect. You are perfect. I am completely at your mercy. Don’t feel awkward or uncomfortable for even a second.”

Her gaze softens and she reaches down to brush a lock of hair out of his eyes. He leans into her hand like a domesticated animal seeking comfort. “Okay, Ben,” she says, quietly. Then she lies back and closes her eyes. “Do what you will.”

He can’t help but let out another soft laugh. “Your wish is my command,” he murmurs, as he lowers his mouth.

The first lick is tentative, parting the seam of her body with his tongue, tasting and teasing. He notes that she has hair here, as well – neatly trimmed, but covering most of her pubic area, and although in the past he’s never really thought about what his preference is, he’s decided that this is it.

Her breathing quickens and he sees in his peripheral vision her fingers clenching into the sheets. He vows that he’s going to make this good for her. He continues to lick experimentally, gauging what she likes – more or less pressure on the clit (more), incorporating his fingers (yes), one finger or two (one—no, two, _god_ two) – and soon she is panting, heels digging into the mattress on either side of him, then into his back as he grabs her thighs to bring her closer to his face, throwing her legs over his shoulders as he devours her, her taste like an elixir that he can’t get enough of, the only thing he ever wants to taste on this godforsaken planet ever again—

He wonders if he’s spoken out loud, because her whole body tenses, but then she wails, “ _Oh, BEN_ — _”_ and he feels her liquefy beneath him, shaking with the force of her climax. He removes his fingers, now soaked, to help her come down gently, still licking softly, before he wipes his mouth on her inner thigh and rests his head there for a brief moment, looking up at her as her eyes focus on his once more.

“That was—I’ve never—” She cuts herself off with a moan and her head drops back once more. “Fuck, Ben.”

He comes up and braces his hands on either side of her. She brings her own hands up to stroke his forearms gently, legs open to him, body languid and sated.

“Rey,” he says softly. “I have to grab the condom. Unless you have—?”

Her eyes focus on his sharply at this necessary intrusion to their intimacy. “No,” she whispers. “I don’t. I mean, when I say I’ve never done this—I meant—” She breaks off.

A thought strikes him then, suddenly, seizing his chest. “Are you a—are you a virgin?” he asks, bordering on urgency, his mind flickering through all possible outcomes of this evening depending on her answer.

“No!” she assures him loudly. “No, no no no. _Not_ a virgin.” She laughs, a short laugh, a bit caustic even. “No,” she says again, firmly. “I’m just not a frequent condom carrier. I’m on the pill. And when I said I don’t do _this_ —” She gestures between the two of them. “—I mean, affairs of the…single-night…nature.” She groans and puts her hand over her eyes. “One-night stands. I don’t do one-night stands, _god_ , why can’t I just say it like a normal person.”

He’s pleased on some levels – he’s not sure how he would have felt had she pulled out a nearly empty Costco-sized box of magnums – but it has also served to make him more curious about her and the life she leads. An adamant non-virgin, but one who doesn’t engage in one-night stands. It was a mystery, but one that his cock was urging him not to engage in at the moment when more pressing matters were at hand. He gets up swiftly and picks up his pants, digging for his wallet. He pulls out the single condom he has in there, thanking whatever deities are listening that it was semi-recently replaced, that he remembered to replace it, and that he even had it to begin with.

“Okay,” he rasps, climbing back over her. He kisses her lips, intending to be brief, but she brings her hand up into his hair, the other one bracing on his bicep, and deepens the kiss. He moans and drops his hips into the cradle of her thighs, feeling her heat and her wetness through the cotton of his boxer briefs. Her hand leaves his arm and snakes down his waist and she gives the waistband of his shorts a pointed tug. He lifts himself up onto his knees and allows her the access she wants. She yanks them down so that his cock springs free and practically whacks him in the stomach – has he ever been this hard in his life? – and then he dies a little as she sees her eyes zero in on him and the tip of her tongue comes out to wet her bottom lip.

She shimmies her body up until she’s sitting on her bottom and then, with her hands on his arms, guides him so that they switch positions – him lying down on his back, with her between his legs. He swallows hard as she gives him a sly smile and kisses down his stomach, each peck of her lips feeling like a gunshot to his over-sensitive skin. He can’t help the involuntary contractions of his abdominal muscles as she goes lower and lower until she’s breathing on his straining cock.

He bites the inside of both his cheeks to refrain from whimpering, though a strangled moan still makes its way out as she licks the very tip of him, before drawing him deeper into her mouth.

“ _Jesus fucking_ —” he breaks off mid-curse as he feels the wet, warm, velvety interior of her mouth envelop more than two-thirds of his cock, then move back up to swirl around the tip, before moving back down and taking in – _Jesus Christ_ – taking in even more the second time around.

He realizes he has about two point five seconds before he explodes in her mouth, so he contracts his stomach muscles to hoist himself up and grab her, before hauling her up towards him. She sits on his thighs, just below his straining shaft, watching as he tries to open the condom wrapper with shaky hands.

She deftly plucks it from his fingers and tears it open with her teeth, before placing it right on the tip and trying to smooth it on properly. Now it’s her turn to fumble and she giggles nervously, until he takes her hand in his and they do it together. Rather than feeling awkward, it feels painfully erotic and intimate, and when her heated eyes catch his, pupils dilated, cheeks flushed, he knows she feels the same way.

Once he’s fully sheathed, he grabs her around the waist and shifts her position so that she’s straddling him right where he wants her. He wraps a hand around his cock and moves the tip through her wetness until he finds the soft, pliant, liquid give of her body, ready to take him in. He holds himself upright until the point when her body does the holding for him and he – counterproductively – feels himself swell even more when he sees that she’s having some trouble taking him all in.

It’s so wrong, but her grimace and her straight white teeth digging into her lower lip in concentration and mild discomfort, make his ape brain go wild.

He grasps her waist again and lifts her up slightly, relieving some of the pressure. She gets the hint and lowers herself down just slightly, then up again, mimicking shallow thrusts. Slowly, slowly, they work out a rhythm and as her body relaxes and liquefies, she takes in more and more of him, until finally – _fucking finally_ – she is fully seated on him and he’s entirely sheathed in her and _it_ _feels un-fucking-believable_.

She lets out a sighing moan. His responding groan is loud and hearty where hers was soft and breathy, but they both convey the same emotion: completion.

She begins to rock back and forth and he knows it’s literally a matter of seconds – even with the condom – before he comes, bigger and longer than he ever has before. In desperation, he licks his thumb and bring it down between their joined bodies, splaying the rest of his fingers over her taut stomach, working her clit as she moves on him.

She moans again, louder this time, bracing her knees on the bed and her hands on his thighs. She’s open to him completely, spread wide, head thrown back, nipples straining towards the ceiling as her motions become more frantic and he increases the friction on her swollen bud, now using the wetness coming from the joining of their bodies and oh fuck ohhh _fuck_ —

She keens and he actually feels her body tighten on him as she comes, rocking uncontrollably, her nails digging into his thighs. He in turn digs his fingers deep into her hips, back arching off the bed as he joins her, nanoseconds later, thanking the heavens for allowing him prolong his orgasm just enough to ensure that she would get hers first.

_There is a God_ , is his final coherent thought as she collapses on his chest in exhaustion, their hearts beating at the same frenetic pace.

He softly strokes her hair and back and she lets out a contented sound. They lay like that for another couple of beats, when suddenly, she sits up and abruptly separates herself from him before padding out of the room.

He watches her go, admiring the view, and then makes short work of tying up and discarding the condom, careful to wrap it up in a Kleenex before throwing it into a wastebasket he finds in her room. He lies back down on her bed and scrubs his face with both hands, wondering how he’ll ever recover from the best sex of his life and when is the soonest he can see her again and if she’ll be cool with him just spending the whole day there and maybe the day after that—

She comes back in the room, toothbrush in her mouth, a soft-looking, knee-length flannel robe on and cinched at the waist. She stops abruptly when she sees him lying there, still completely naked.

“Oh,” she says around her toothbrush. “You’re still here.”

He looks at her quizzically. “Where else would I be?”

She shrugs and continues brushing her teeth, gesturing vaguely towards the door.

He gapes at her. “Wait, what?” She can’t possibly mean—

She stares at him, uncomprehendingly, then she holds up one finger and leaves the room. He can hear the water running and the clatter of her toothbrush, before she comes back to the bedroom and regards him like a curiosity, hands on hips and head tilted slightly.

“Don’t feel obligated to stay,” she says finally, in a rush. “I’m not—I mean, there’s no expectations—” She breaks off, looking vaguely uncomfortable, like she’d swallowed something that had gotten stuck in her throat.

He sits up now, finds his discarded boxers and pulls them on, before standing up and staring at her. “Do you want me to go?” he asks straightforwardly, shocked that this is even an option.

“Well, I don’t want you to stay if you don’t want to,” she responds pragmatically.

Her pointed lack of emotion is starting get under his skin. “Right, but what do _you_ want?”

“Whatever you want,” she replies promptly. “Don’t feel obligated,” she repeats distractedly, as her gaze travels the floor, before latching on to a pair of pajama bottoms. She snatches them up and puts them on under her robe, then finds a t-shirt and quickly discards the robe to pull that on as well. After she’s dressed, she walks over to the bed and tucks herself in. “I’ll lock up behind you,” she assures him, hands folded on top of her sheets.

He’s about to reply angrily, hurt that this experience didn’t mean the same to her as it did to him, when he notices a faint tremor in the bedsheets. Her hands, although giving the illusion of stillness in the way they’re positioned, upon closer inspection appear to be trembling violently.

_She’s nervous_ , he realizes, feeling a pang in his chest. She expects him to leave – thinks he _wants_ to leave – and doesn’t want to beg him to stay. So she’s walled up her emotions, creating a barrier between the two of them, as a form of self-preservation.

_Or you could be so desperate for her that you’re believing your own bullshit_ , his traitorous mind pipes up.

He wavers for just a minute – is this worth his pride, on the off-chance she really _does_ want him to go?

He allows his gaze to travel over her. Her hair, down now, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her lips, swollen from his kisses. Those freckles dusted over her nose and cheeks like constellations. A ratty tee advertising The Hard Rock Café in Niagara Falls covering those lovely breasts and all the marks he’d imprinted on her skin.

_Almost_ , he thinks, as his eyes caress some lingering redness on her neck and her collarbone. She gives him a small smile, as though she can read his thoughts, but uncertainty still lurks behind those gorgeous hazel eyes.

His pride? He scoffs internally.

Fuck his pride.

And he makes his way back to the bed.


	2. the morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big, big thanks to Saffron_Darklighter for correcting my (previously incorrect) knowledge of the English school system. "xxxx" to you, darling!
> 
> And to the lovely [clara-gemm](http://clara-gemm.tumblr.com) for the GORGEOUS illustration. I am spoiled by the talent around me. Thank you!!

 

Rey wakes in small measures, languidly coming into consciousness.

Eyes closed, she takes slow inventory of the individual, luxurious aches and twinges in her body, not yet fully forming an understanding of their origins. A soreness in her glutes. Some tension in her neck and shoulders. A bruised feeling where her inner thighs touch. And then there’s that achey fullness between her legs—

_Oh._

Memories begin to assault her as she awakens further.

The bar. The cab. The kitchen counter. The bed. Ohhh, the bed.

Then there’s the man – Ben – fully formed in her thoughts, smiling bashfully as he looks down into his glass, a lock of hair falling rakishly over his brow. Ben, staring at her hands with those intense, russet eyes, as she intentionally finds excuse after excuse to brush her fingertips on him while they speak. Hailing that cab, all eagerness and long, striding limbs. His face when she pounces on him as they drive off, looking for all intents and purposes like a man who could devour her.

_His face when he actually does._

A tremor runs through her body.

She knows, without a doubt, that last night had been the best sex of her life.

Really, it’s a claim that can easily go uncontested. From a dubiously sanctioned and uncomfortable experience when she was fourteen, almost fifteen – still too young, much, _much_ too young – with a boy who had promised to stay with her if she would just give him _this one thing_ (spoiler alert: he didn’t); to a few fumbling involvements with short-term boyfriends in her late-teens; then, a longer-term, but still only semi-satisfying, relationship in her first year of college, Rey – while _certainly_ not the virgin Ben may have momentarily thought she was – has not exactly experienced a plethora of sexual partners or encounters in her twenty-three years of life. Any orgasms she had achieved with a partner had needed to be heavily assisted by herself. She hadn’t – not once – derived pleasure from a guy going down on her and usually did not even give them the opportunity to try (or go beyond the first few fumbling minutes). Last night had been—it had been—

She slowly cracks open one eye, her vision sluggishly adjusting to the light, eager to see the object of her lustful contemplations. She is so relieved to know that he hadn’t left. At first she hadn’t been sure how to play it – not wanting to come across overly eager, despite her initial pursual, not even daring to hope he’d make the decision to stay of his own accord. She had been burned too many times before, to the point where she’d had to harden her heart against even the possibility of hope.

But now, _now_ his presence is a reality, all but guaranteed. He’d stayed of his own volition. He’d _wanted_ to stay. The truth makes her almost giddy in lightheaded relief. _This could actually_ be _something_ , she thinks, curling her toes in pleasure.

She anticipates he is still sleeping, that broad chest bathed in the early morning sunlight, his hair tousled – from sleep and from her hands – those biceps and shoulders – _god_ , his fucking arms as one whole, glorious package – maybe tucked under a pillow or her sheets or, if she’s really lucky, splayed out on display for her.

The white sheets blearily come into view, rumpled and drawn back from the bed. A pillow, crushed as if it had been clasped in a powerful grip, then left to unfurl itself. And – nothing.

The bed is empty.

She listens, briefly, for the sound of running water or a flushing toilet.

Still nothing.

In degrees, small at first, then bigger as realization dawns, her heart sinks like a stone, taking her stomach with it. Regret immediately courses through her veins. Oh, but she is a fool. Such a fool.

She has never, _never_ before pulled a move like she had last night. Her drunken words echo in her head – _“You, sir, are_ very _attractive”_ – and she experiences a full body cringe.

Stupid. _Stupid_.

She had been drinking and enjoying herself with Finn and Rose, the former of which had just gotten a promotion, when she had spotted Ben sitting there by himself at the bar and her stomach had done a funny little flip, just at the sight of him. She had decided then and there that she was going to approach him, one way or another, although it required several more surreptitious glances (and drinks) before she could gather up the courage.

Finn had obviously noticed her staring and teased her in that overprotective, half-joking, “big brother” way he had – seriousness under the guise of levity. Then there had been that silent dick-measuring exchange he’d had with Ben when he had thought she’d been distracted.

In the end, though, he’d let it go. Why wouldn’t he? He knew as much as she did that she did whatever she wanted – it’d been that way practically their whole lives, growing up in the London foster care system together. He’d never known his dad, and his mom had been more concerned with her next hit than with the whereabouts or well-being of her son. And Rey, similarly neglected – perpetually drunken parents who couldn’t care less if their child found her next meal at home (fat chance of that) or in the streets.

They’d both been taken in by the city – Finn, when his mom shacked up with a registered sex offender at age ten and Rey when she had been found by police, dumpster-diving for the third time in one month, at around the age of seven – and had bounced around from foster home to foster home together, usually ending up in the same place – some better than average (some much worse) – until they reached the age of majority. Finn escaped first and immediately started working, interning for an insurance company who blessedly gave a kid with A-level qualifications a chance, while taking short courses at the University of London.

Rey, for her part, had always been socially rebellious to the frustration (or apathy, really, in some cases) of her foster parents, but had also taken her education very seriously. She inherently understood that the only way she would be able to get anywhere in life would be through a combination of her smarts and her willingness to allow others to foot the bill – in this case, a scholarship to one of the most prestigious schools in America for their aerospace engineering program. The plan had always been to get far away and, in this, she had succeeded.

As soon as she’d graduated secondary school, with all A* in her primarily maths- and science-centric A-levels, she’d packed up her meagre belongings and left, Finn right behind her. His logic for leaving with her had been that insurance companies existed everywhere. The truth had been that neither really knew how to exist without the other.

In the next four years, they were able to gain that independence that they desperately needed, while still staying close. Finn found a job, Rey buried herself in her studies, and they both worked towards excelling in their respective fields.

While neither admitted it out loud, the spectre of success, true success, constantly dangled over their heads like the proverbial carrot. Success meant that they had risen from the squalor of their origins, spurning the statistics that insisted they were incapable.

Success meant _they_ had won.

And, ultimately, they had both achieved it. Finn, rising through the ranks in his company, culminating with his recent promotion. Rey, at the top of her class in school, getting a job right out of university with one of the leading airlines in the country. Happy, for the most part.

Finn had even taken it one step further, merging personal success along with his career achievements. He had met Rose in his first year working at his new company and the relationship progressed naturally. Rey had always suspected, from the way they told it, that Rose had had a crush and Finn had been oblivious until he’d had no choice but to pay attention. Regardless, it had worked out beautifully: his upward climb within the company had paralleled the development of their relationship and, at almost twenty-seven, he was able to sit back with a secure, well-paying job, a devoted partner, and now, as they’d found out a few months back, a little one on the way. He was truly making something of himself. Rey was so incredibly proud of her friend and she was confident that Finn wouldn’t hesitate to say the same about her.

Still… Still. A feeling had always niggled at the back of her mind; the idea that something was missing. She knew Finn had felt that way once, too, but had begun to discover the absent pieces of the puzzle in Rose, now, especially, with the new baby on the way. Rey, for her part, though loving her job in a field that fascinated her, wasn’t quite in the same place, with all the same pieces. And this thing with Ben, whatever it had truly been, had almost left her – not hopeful, exactly, but perhaps a bit… sanguine.

Almost.

It was for the best anyway. He was clearly a well-to-do guy. There was something in the way he held himself that bespoke of a confidence that was innate, not learned. He was likely more than a few years older than her. From a loving (probably rich) family. Two parents, older, but distinguished. Obviously still together. Maybe a sister, with kids of her own, his nieces and nephews…

 _God_. She knows she’s spiraling, but the disappointment of shattered illusions combined with the intrinsic belief, illogical as she knows it be, that always rears its ugly head during her most vulnerable times – the idea that she has always been alone, unloved – continues to plague her.

She thinks of how she froze last night when he’d asked the innocuous question of whether her name was short for anything. If she had answered him truthfully – “Er, I actually don’t know. You see, my drunk mother never bothered to tell me and likely lost my birth certificate immediately after receiving it” – would he have run then?

In hindsight, it probably would have been for the best had she just scared him off earlier in the evening. Then she could have avoided this messiness. This upending of her staid life. Things were always better when they stayed safe. Boring. Predictable.

She sighs heavily and then turns and groans loudly into her pillow. _I’m an idiot_.

Heaving another sigh, still fully committed to her melancholy, she hoists herself out of bed and pads out of the room, avoiding the piles of clothing on the floor.

 _No wonder he took off_ , she thinks in half-hearted self-deprecation as she blindly navigates to the washroom, eyes still half closed. _Slob._

After doing her business and flushing, she begins to brush her teeth, leaving the water running full blast because nothing matters anyway. She stares at herself in the mirror as she brushes, listlessly making note of her appearance. Last night’s mascara, smeared slightly under her eyes (— _you’ve probably looked like that since ten PM, just FYI._ ) Fading red marks peeking out from the collar of her Niagara Falls t-shirt ( _—sexiest choice of nightwear. How could he resist you?_ ) Her hair, simultaneously flattened and tousled by sleep (— _and sex_. _Ugh, shut up._ )

She needs a shower.

Spitting in the sink, she rinses the toothbrush and her mouth and contemplates just stripping and washing last night off of her completely. Her stomach grumbles loudly in protest.

 _Fine_. Food first.

She exits the bathroom and turns a corner, trudging into her small kitchen barefoot, bracing herself for the sight of the cold kettle and the boxes of tea and the open cupboard and the clothes on the floor – all tangible memories of an evening that she knows will be imprinted on her brain for a long time to come, whether she wants it to be or—

She skids to an abrupt halt, her jaw slackening as she openly gapes at the actual sight that greets her.

_Ben._

Ben, indeed. In his underwear ( _good god_ ) with his back to her, bare arms flexing as one hand holds a plastic mixing bowl and the other rapidly stirs the contents inside. A large frying pan – she _owns_ a frying pan that large? – on one of her burners, four perfect circles of batter starting to slowly bubble. As if on cue, the kettle, on its proper element after being displaced the previous night, starts to whistle. Rey looks over slightly to see two mugs set out on the counter beside the stove, a tea bag in each. Off to the far end, away from any meal prep, are their discarded clothes folded into a neat pile, her bra at the top like the cherry on a sundae.

She feels a hard lump formulate slowly at the base of her throat. It makes her eyes burn and her chest hurt.

He stayed. _He stayed_.

She must make some sort of noise, or perhaps he just senses her, because he looks over his shoulder suddenly, his hair falling over his eyes as he remains stooped over the bowl. He gives her a slow, devastating half-smile, that single dimple on full display as he takes her in.

He opens his mouth to greet her, but before he can even speak, she blurts out: “You’re still here? And… _making pancakes_?”

His stirring slows down as he regards her, looking like he’s trying to decipher her tone. “Yes…” he says eventually, drawing the word out slightly. His eyes flicker between hers as if trying to gauge her reaction to his presence. “Is that—” He cuts himself off with a minuscule head shake and changes tacks. “You were passed out, so I let you sleep and thought I’d make us some breakfast. Are pancakes okay? You didn’t have eggs, but I figured it out.”

Are pancakes okay? _Are pancakes okay?_

 _I just had an existential crisis fifteen years in the making, condensed into the span of time it took me to pee, all because I thought you had snuck off on me in the middle of night after saying that you would stay, and it made me question everything I know about my state of mind, the trajectory of my life, and my feelings for_ you, _a virtual stranger, who I’ve known for less than half a day, but have somehow convinced myself I can’t possibly live without, and not just because you gave me the best head of my life—_

“Pancakes are great!” she responds, her voice cracking only slightly.

His face breaks into another easy grin and her knees weaken in response. “Okay, good,” he says. “Have a seat.” He nods towards her rickety, round, garage sale table and turns to grab a spatula.

She ignores him (idleness doesn’t suit her) and instead goes to the stove and pours the boiled water into their two mugs while he flips the pancakes already in the pan. The domesticity kills her. Did she really just meet this man the night before?

“How do you take your tea?” she asks, trying to distract herself from her own obsessive train of thought.

“Black,” he replies, before setting the spatula back down and leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed.

She makes the mistake of not looking at him until after she’s added the milk to her own tea and is holding two steaming mugs of scalding hot liquid in her hands. When she does eventually look up, she’s confronted dead on with the reminder of her own debauchery, in the form of his bare chest, broad and magnificent, bookended by two tree trunks for arms, muscles slightly bulging with blessed tension from being crossed. She swallows hard and looks into his face, her hands shaking slightly as she tries desperately not to spill tea everywhere, expecting to see a knowing smirk on his lips.

Instead he’s looking down and away slightly, not quite meeting her gaze. She realizes that his stance isn’t so that he can best show off his (remarkable) assets, but because he’s _uncomfortable_. He’s trying to diminish the amount of nudity on display with the protective gesture of crossing his arms over his (impressive) chest. He doesn’t even know she’s ogling him and mentally adding complimentary (horny) qualifiers to his body parts!

She recalls his earnest interest in her at the bar, the way he listened intently to what she was saying rather than rifling through myriad ways to impress her, as well as his self-deprecating humour when talking about his job and the people he worked with, but mostly in relation to himself.

 _My god_ , she realizes. _This gorgeous man-shaped refrigerator has literally no idea how magnificent he – and his supercock – truly are._

She’s about to open her mouth to say something – anything – when he glances over at her and sees she’s holding his tea.

“Oh, thanks,” he says, taking it from her and setting it down, before picking up the spatula again and sliding the pancakes off the pan and into the plates he’s already taken out of her cupboard (olive green, slightly chipped, also garage sale – god, she sucks at adulting). “Two okay?” he asks as he divvies them up evenly between the two plates. “I can make more.” He nods at the bowl that still has batter left in it.

“Oh, no, two is perfect. Too much even.” _I could eat four before you even finish one._ “I’ll grab the syrup and the cutlery.”

She sets down her tea and her plate at the table before gathering forks and knives and the classic Aunt Jemima “can’t-legally-use-the-word-maple” syrup from her cupboard (she subscribes to the belief that something is only _really_ good when it doesn’t require refrigeration) surreptitiously checking the expiry date before setting it on the table where Ben had just sat down.

He grabs his knife and fork and looks down at himself, letting out an uneasy chuckle. “I should really go put on my clothes from last night,” he says, making a move to stand up. “I feel weird sitting here eating breakfast in my underwear.”

“No!” Rey practically shouts, before internally cringing. _Jam your hype, you thirsty bitch_. “No,” she says again, pointedly (falsely) calmer this time. “Just be comfortable. It doesn’t bother me.” _Smooth_.  

He looks down at himself again with a grimace, but doesn’t make another move to get up. They both dig in, silently passing syrup and sipping tea, Rey making a concerted effort to do things she normally doesn’t do very well when eating, like cutting her food into reasonably-sized portions or chewing.

She successfully keeps pace along with his eating, but he must sense something is up, because he looks at her carefully when they each have only about half a pancake left. “Are they any good?” he wonders, glancing down at his own plate. “I’ve never done it without eggs before.”

“Oh, yeah they’re fantastic,” she enthuses and it’s not even disingenuous. She would have cleaned her plate twice over by now. He somehow managed to get them tasty and still fluffy and she was certain she’d never eaten better pancakes, though, in truth, the bare-chested company could be partially responsible for the enhancement of her gustatory senses. To prove to him how much she’s enjoying them, she eats the last half in one huge, syrupy bite, inadvertently closing her eyes in rapture as her mouth fills with the soggy, sugary softness.

“Mmm,” she hums softly in pleasure, before swallowing and taking a big gulp of tea. She glances over at him and finds him looking at her, enraptured. “Wha?” She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand unconsciously, before remembering that she was trying _not_ to be such a heathen, while simultaneously realizing she was still shit at adulting and had forgotten to even put _goddamn napkins_ on the table. In fact – she didn’t even _have goddamn napkins_. She is certain her internal groan is loud enough for him to hear.

“Nothing,” he responds to her previous grunt, polishing off his own pancake, before settling back in his seat. Her unstable kitchen chair protests under the weight of this behemoth of a man. “I should probably get going,” he continues, although to his credit (and Rey’s battered ego) he does it reluctantly. “I’m sure you’ve got things to do and I should probably – get other clothes – on…” he finishes haltingly, making to stand up. He goes to collect the plates, but Rey quickly sweeps them out from underneath his grasping hands.

“You cooked, I clean,” she tells him succinctly, taking the dishes to the sink. She leaves the mixing bowl alone – two pancakes does not a hungry Rey feed, so that batter will come in handy later – and makes quick work of their plates, cutlery, and mugs. She can feel him coming up behind her hesitantly – the man radiates enough heat to warm a small country – and her heart skips a beat when she sees his hands brace themselves on either side of her at the kitchen counter.

He places a soft kiss at the nape of her neck and each hair on her body individuates.

“Thanks for such a great night,” he murmurs, his mouth still touching her skin. The sentiment could come across as sleazy, but his tone holds a level of reverence that shifts the overall meaning from licentious to truly appreciative and even slightly awed. She silently rinses off her soapy hands, trying to keep her wits about her. He continues: “I want to get your number before I leave, if that’s okay?”

“Sure,” is what she wants to say, in a casual and breezy tone. Friendly, open. Cool.

“I have to shower,” is what she blurts out instead. She feels him still behind her and she can actually hear his brain working to interpret the meaning behind this statement. At this point, she is so far gone, she can’t help but haltingly, humiliatingly, forge ahead: “Would you like to—” _Don’t say it, Rey, don’t you fucking say it._ “—join me?” Her internal voice of reason lets out a guttural howl of mortified rage. _Why don’t you just say fucking ‘please’ while you’re at it, you abysmal twat?_

To her abject relief, he doesn’t seem secondhand-embarrassed or appalled. In fact, he says “Yes” before she even finishes her question. Then, he says it again for good measure.

Once again, she gets the distinct and pleasurable feeling that she isn’t alone in her admiration. She turns around, still caged in his arms, and allows her hands to finally, _finally_ coast up his flat abdomen and over his chest. He dips his head down and she boosts herself up onto her toes, meeting his lips halfway. He tastes like good English tea, a hint of mint, and the sweet stickiness of the pancake syrup. She moans into his mouth and licks at his tongue, twining her arms around his neck. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss further, bringing his hands around her back, splaying his fingers over her spine and shoulder blades, drawing her closer.

Through some sort of mutual understanding, a strange moment of telepathic connection – or mutual lust-fueled imagination – she hops up right as his hands coast down and tuck under her bottom, and he’s lifting her and propping her up on the counter, meeting her body flush against his own, as her legs draw him in even closer.

She can feel his prominent erection through the worn cotton of her pajama bottoms and she restlessly grinds against him as they continue to explore each other’s mouths. She finds her movements are starting to get out of control as she continues to create friction between their bodies, attempting to chase the feeling of pleasure it brings her. Before she can take it too far, though, he breaks away from her with a groan.

“Rey,” he rasps, bracing his hands on the counter once more, hanging his head slightly. She pushes his hair back from his face before she even realizes what she’s doing. “We can’t—” He swallows hard. “I only had the one condom.”

She absorbs that information. She is on the pill, but the more she thinks it through, she’s really been shit at taking it consistently lately. Not just that, but logically she understands it’s not very responsible of her to have unprotected sex with a guy she literally just met. As much as she desperately – so pathetically desperately – wants to. She could just ask him if he’s clean, she reasons with herself. She’s sure he’ll tell the truth. And _she_ knows that she is – she got tested after her last boyfriend and it’s been radio silence since then. She chews at her lip and looks up at him. He waits patiently for her to make her decision. They both ignore his raging hard-on settled in the crux of her thighs.

_Be smart for once, idiot._

“We can—” She licks her lips, mouth dry, cheeks heated. “Do… other things?” That’s it. She’s officially put herself out there as much as humanly possible; no remaining shreds of dignity are left. She can’t even meet his gaze, staring instead at the soft spot at the base of his neck, a vulnerable hollow surrounded by corded muscle. She wants to kiss it.

He crouches until his eyes are level with hers and she’s forced to meet his gaze.

“Anything,” he says, once he’s captured her full attention. “We can do anything.”

Her breath catches softly. Then she nods. “Come.” She grabs his hands and hops off the counter, leading him to her bathroom.

Already tiny, it seems to shrink exponentially when Ben enters it with her. She reaches around him to push back the shower curtain and start the water, testing the temperature before stepping back to look up at him. Holding eye contact, she slowly hooks her fingers in the waistband of his boxer briefs.

Wordlessly, he gently draws her hands away. She blinks at him, briefly confused, before he bends down and kisses her softly, his large hands cupping her shoulders.

 _Ahh_ , she thinks. _His turn to take charge._

He sweeps them down her arms and she feels goosebumps lift and chase his hands on their descent. He continues to kiss her—soft, open-mouthed kisses, barely touching her with his tongue, as he plays with the hem of her t-shirt.

She kisses him back, but watches him as well, snaking her hands into his hair, tugging on the layers just enough to get his attention. He pulls back and looks at her, one brow lifting slightly in tandem with the corner of his mouth.

 _Compromise._ She raises her hands so that her arms are stretched over her head and gives him an expectant look.

He laughs softly and nods, before tugging the shirt up and over her head. He pulls her in so that their bare chests are flush against one another. She can feel her nipples poking into his ribcage and he wraps one arm around her back, fingers tickling at her side, while his other hand comes up under her chin, tilting it slightly so that she’s looking right at him. She expects him to lean in and kiss her once more, but instead he just gives her that fish-hook smile and looks back and forth between her eyes for a beat.

“Good morning,” he says finally, russet eyes warm.

She can feel her cheeks stretching with the strength of her smile. This guy. She gives in to the impulse to kiss the pulse point at the base of his throat and it’s as silky and lovely, soft and warm as she imagined it would be. His breath hitches and she looks back up at him, catching his tender gaze.

“`Morning,” she murmurs, unable to suppress the pleasure she feels just by looking at him and being in his arms, tummy full (well, sort of) with pancakes, about to take a nice warm shower in the company of his big, beautiful—

He interrupts her vulgar train of thought with another kiss. “I’m glad I stayed.” It’s a statement of fact, though he’s eyeing her as he says it, gauging her reaction.

She swallows hard. Evidently, she  _does_ still have a teensy bit of dignity left after all, because she watches it fly away with her next words: “I’m _so_ glad you stayed. If I gave you the impression that I—wanted otherwise…it was false. I haven’t had the greatest—” _Stop talking._ “ _—_ life experiences—” _For the love of god shut UP._ “ _—_ and it causes me to try and protect myself at whatever cost…even if it’s sometimes at the expense of others,” she blurts out the last bit, effectively stifling her internal voice before it throttles her completely

Ben, to his credit, looks more upset _for_ her than eager to bolt at her revelation. Further to his credit, he simply nods, accepting her explanation without asking for further elaboration. At least one of them has remembered they’re practically still strangers and this kind of discussion is more appropriate for eight weeks into a relationship rather than eight hours.

 _Moving on_. “The water’s getting cold,” Rey says, nodding towards the running shower. “I don’t have the best water heater, it won’t stay a good temp forever.”

His face loses its contemplative look and he smiles at her. “Then, by all means—” He sweeps the curtain back open and gestures inside the tiny shower tub “—after you.”

She giggles and, quickly, without thinking it over too hard, drops her pajama bottoms onto the bathroom floor and steps into the spray. She tilts her head up and allows the water – mercifully still warm – to course over her face, hair, and body. Cracking one eye open she catches sight of her razor, resting amid the half-empty shampoo bottles.

 _Too late for you now,_ she thinks wistfully, looking down at her prickly legs.

Ben pops in a few seconds behind her, now blissfully nude as well. Rey glances down at him and marvels at how anything that size even fit into her body. He is so supremely well-endowed, part of her feels like she must have dreamt it, if it weren’t for the telltale remaining soreness between her legs that reminds her otherwise.

He catches her staring and huffs out a laugh before peering intently at her soap and shampoo bottles, determining what’s what.

“Here we go,” he says to himself, pumping some shampoo onto his hands. He rubs his hands together slightly, before commanding in that deep voice of his that never fails to send shivers down her spine: “Tilt your head back.”

She obliges – what choice does she have, truly? – closing her eyes as he massages the shampoo into her scalp. He’s got the perfect height advantage for the job, his fingers working deftly and thoroughly through her locks as the water cascades down her back, missing her hair for the time being. She focuses entirely on the feel of his strong fingers working through her hair, kneading her scalp, tickling the base of her skull. She grows somnolent, heavy, and the act of standing upright becomes a chore.

Before she collapses entirely, he finishes up and pushes her back gently into the spray – she almost stumbles coming out of her trance – and she rinses out her hair. He uses the remaining shampoo on his head and carefully switches positions with her to rinse out his hair as well.

He peers at the bottles again. “Conditioner?” he asks after a beat.

She looks, too, before shrugging. “Guess I’m out.” _Liar. When’s the last time you used conditioner, you philistine._

He gives her a sidelong glance, shaking his head in mock-reproach, before reaching for the body soap. He takes some and lathers it up in his hands, before turning her around again to face the spray. He keeps her just out of the way of the water, running his hands over the curves and contours of her body – the crook of her elbows, the curve of her shoulders, the indentation of her waist and then the path it follows over her hips.

Her breathing starts to pick up as his hands course over her hips and around her front, over the taut, quivering flesh of her stomach, and up to her breasts. His slippery hands cup them, massaging, before bringing his second and first fingers together, pinching the nipples lightly between them.

Her mouth parts on a cross between a moan and a sigh as he continues to play with her breasts. His slick hands glide over and around, plucking and teasing at her nipples, until she starts to grow overheated in the lukewarm spray. She leans forward, head bowed down, water coursing over her hair and body, and she braces her hand on the slippery tiles of the shower wall, no longer able to support herself with just her legs.

His arms become anchors and he turns her body to the other end of the tub, away from the water. The cool air hits her like tiny shards of glass and she shivers convulsively.

He angles the spray so it hits the wall and in turn also hits her slightly, just enough that she doesn’t freeze.

 _Why is he so perfect?_ her brain bemoans.

That’s her last coherent thought as those soapy hands find her body once more. He runs them down her arms until his fingers link with hers. Stretching, he places her hands on the tile of the wall once more. He insinuates a large foot between her two smaller ones, nudging her legs apart wider. Her breathing gets even more erratic in anticipation of what he’s going to do. His hand glides lower and lower still until he’s cupping her between her legs. She can feel how slick her body is, even without the soap, and he hisses as he feels it, too.

“ _God_ , Rey,” he groans, pulling her further back against his body, so his erection notches between the curves of her ass.

She moans out loud at the contact, his hard shaft stroking the sensitized area in the back as his fingers stroke her in front.

His middle finger finds the bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs and he rubs mercilessly until she’s gasping and her legs are quivering, before removing the pressure of his finger and stroking up and around instead.

“No,” she gasps and he chuckles lightly against her throat, nipping at shoulder and her neck as he brings his finger back where she needs it most.

He continues pumping his hard-on between her ass cheeks, setting all her nerve endings aflame, while his hand and fingers manipulate her from the front. She blindly pumps soap into her hand and reaches for him behind her.  

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, as she pushes her ass back to cradle him further, slipping her hand up and down the top of his cock in tandem with his thrusts.

He caresses her raggedly, his thumb brushing her clit while his two large fingers fill her, stroking upwards into her interior walls.  

“Fuuuuck, Ben,” she half-moans, half-sobs, “I can’t—I can’t—” Her voice breaks as her legs continue to shake uncontrollably. He wraps his other arm tightly around her body, supporting her, as he continues to work her body from the front and the back. “Just put it in me,” she begins to babble. “Just put it in me—please—I need you, I need you, IneedyouIneedyou _Ineedyou_ —”

“Shhhh,” he soothes raggedly, groaning as he continues to thrust between the globes of her ass and into her hand. He kisses her neck, bites her shoulder, and that point of pleasure-pain frissons through her entire body. She tenses and cries out as the first wave of her orgasm crests and then her knees give out completely as it washes over her in pleasurable swells and undulations, continuing longer than she thought was even possible. She leans forward and rests her heated forehead on the cool tile of the shower wall.

Ben tightens his arms around her, holding her up entirely now, one hand still between her legs, the other crossing over her torso to grip at her breast. He thrusts one last time and groans loudly, the deep, guttural noise bouncing off the tiles, echoing throughout the small bathroom.

She feels his warm release on her hand and lower back and adjusts her grip so that her stroke is softer now, soothing.

She can feel his body quivering in the same aftershocks that she’s experiencing, as he presses his front to her back, trapping the mess between them, and placing his forehead on the tile beside hers.

She turns her head slightly to look up at him through bleary eyes and he does the same. She wonders if she looks as wrecked as he does. The thought, along with her glowing post-orgasmic delirium, causes her to start giggling uncontrollably. He closes his eyes and shakes his head slightly, chuckling softly, before tightening his arms around her.

They take a minute to gather themselves, then wash off quickly and step out of the rapidly cooling water. Rey only has one towel, so they share it, before going around the apartment collecting their clothes and then back to her room, exchanging contented smiles and shy glances as they dress. 

Spent, she ties her hair up in a messy bun before crawling back into bed fully clothed. Ben stares at her for a beat, looking at war with himself, before finally flopping down beside her. She wants to curl around him and sleep for the rest of the day like that, but, once again, has to remind herself that she literally met this man for the first time the previous evening and maybe she should _cool it_ just a bit.

 _But why?_ says the empty space where her dignity used to be. She closes her eyes to keep from groaning out loud.

After a few quiet seconds, Ben clears his throat. “I should leave you to it, then.”

She cracks an eye open and looks at him. He’s lying on his back, fingers loosely linked over his belly, his head turned towards her. His wet hair is sticking up in some places and flat in others. She feels a softness settle in her chest, warm and promising.

 _I like you_ , she thinks.

Before she can respond, her stomach makes a sound reminiscent of a garbage truck rumbling down a pothole-covered street.

He looks down in surprise and laughs incredulously. “You’re still hungry?”

She looks at him sheepishly. “They were small pancakes,” she mumbles, slightly defensive.

He regards her for a beat, before throwing his head back and laughing loudly. It takes her by surprise – she had mostly been rewarded with only chuckles and half-smiles up until this point – so she eats up the expression on his face while she can: his wide smile crinkling into his cheeks, adorably imperfect teeth, that dimple in stark relief on his face, his eyes clenched tightly as he succumbs to his amusement (at her, but whatever). His laughter eventually subsides into light chortles as he wipes his eyes and looks over at her. His merry gaze warms as it runs over her face.

“Well, I can’t just leave you here starving,” he says eventually, mock-gravity colouring his tone.

She immediately picks up on what he’s implying and tries, mostly unsuccessfully, to quell some of her giddiness.

“If only there were a bowl of leftover batter on the counter that someone intentionally didn’t wash,” she sighs, playing along. He lets out a short laugh at her revelation. “And an expert eggless-pancake flipper around,” she adds, exhaling again deeply in exaggerated wistfulness. “If only.”

He rubs his chin, thoughtfully. “I _think_ I may know a guy who can stay to help out.”

At this, his face softens into a smile that warms her stomach, spreading upwards and outwards through her chest and her limbs. She feels a notch filling, deep in her heart, like something clicking into place. It’s an empty spot – one of many that exist and may still exist for some time – being replaced by something else, something that pacifies and heals; something that fits.

“If he did,” she says, looking earnestly into his warm, brown eyes, feeling that warmth as it continues to course through her body, filling the gaps and soothing the worn and ragged edges, “that would be  _fantastic_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! A lot of you are asking for a continuation of this story. While I am practically speechless with gratitude towards all of you for reading it, liking it, and taking the time to let me know, I don't really have a plan at this time to continue with these particular characters. I think the story told itself really well in two parts and I don't want to ruin what I've built here with too much "extra" info (I'm sure other authors can relate!)
> 
> With that said, please feel free to mosey on over to my collection of prompt fills [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553363/chapters/33626979) or my other works [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/literaryminded/pseuds/delia-pavorum) (all Star Wars ST, all Reylo, almost all E or M rated [just giving you the ~important~ info]) to see if anything else I've written hits you in the feels the same way this story did.
> 
> You can also follow me on tumblr [here](https://delia-pavorum.tumblr.com) to get prompt fills/writing as it happens (it usually takes me a day or two to upload onto AO3) or to just get a general idea of the Reylo-centric garbage I like to post. You can ALSO also use my tumblr to submit various requests, ask me questions, or interact in any way you please - I am desperate for attention, in case it wasn't obvious. 
> 
> Anyway, this is too long. Thanks for reading!! Xo


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